Someone's coming up to the inn. A distinct sensation of death precedes her, scored deep into the approaching soul; relatively fresh scars, but controlled, leaving careful wounds. The scents of forge-smoke, iron, fire, and tobacco are next, and then the elf herself rounds the corner. River hasn't dressed up, and her only concession to the cold is the deep green hooded cloak from which her ears poke out and deep red hair spills. Her bare arms have layers of overlapping, identical sigils scored into them, each glowing like coals in the deepening night. Snowflakes that touch her arms flash into steam instantly.

She's stressed, put through a tangled emotional wringer of love and worry and guilt and So Much Work To Do, and worse, something in there is amplifying her emotions so she can't even collapse about it and have a nice cathartic dissociation session. Instead she's here, mounting the steps up to the porch and finding a spot of wall to lean against far enough from Valdis to be polite. She immediately busies herself with packing a gorgeous, hand-carved wooden pipe with a distinct skull motif.

"...Busy in there?" She asks; her accent is lilting, almost musical. "I dunno if I can do a bunch of people tonight."